


Maybe Happiness Is This

by cantgetnoworse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angsty Schmoop, Anxiety, M/M, Meet-Cute, Post-Break Up, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Part of him wants to quell Harry's worries immediately, but another part screams at him to tell the truth. That they probably shouldn’t go there. That it’s a bad time for Zayn, to be starting up something so new. That there’s Liam who Harry doesn’t yet know about and that there's Zayn who's still a bit fucked up inside.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Happiness Is This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catholicschoolgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/gifts).



> catholicschoolgirl: I really, really hope this works for you, even just a little bit. I chose your second prompt and I think I might have bitten off more than I could chew, but two extensions and a million edits later, it's finally done. I truly hope it scratches the itch.
> 
> Eternal thank you to my betas, T and M, without whom I would not have come close to finishing this. Any remaining mistakes (and I'm sure there are a few) are entirely my own. A special thank you to [knightzayn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/knightzayn) for putting all this together and being so patient with me. You're the best.
> 
>    
>  _"Maybe happiness is this: not feeling like you should be elsewhere, doing something else, being someone else." - Isaac Asimov_  
> 

Louis does what he’s always done and makes Zayn feel like the world isn’t ending. 

He’s always been good for that, since the first day of uni years ago. To everyone else, Louis might have been the loud, obnoxious arsehole who can't hold his liquor and is too brash for his own good. But not like this. Like this, he's one of the only people who can keep Zayn afloat, no questions asked. Zayn thinks he’s an extension of his very own self, maybe.

They talk for a long time, until Louis’ break at the record store is over, and then for a few more minutes after that. Louis offers him a place to live, telling him that that he and Niall have still got that extra room at their flat, the one that Josh left them with when he fucked off to Manchester last month. 

“It’s pure luxury living, mate, a room the size of my arsehole that has an occasional problem with mice,” he says, pulling a laugh right from Zayn’s gut. 

In the end, it’s not really a question. Zayn packs his things into boxes and moves in with them by the end of the week.

\--

“Oy, shit, that fucking _hurts_!” Louis hisses, pulling a scowl fit for a four year old. “Could you have some mercy, please? At least offer me a bloody snog to keep my mind off it.”

The girl that’s working a needle over Louis’ upper arm - Eleanor, apparently - just rolls her eyes and huffs a sigh, keeping her hand steady as she inks the outline of a stag deeper into Louis’ skin.

“If you don’t stop moving,” she says, pushing her tongue between her teeth in concentration. “I’ll ink a massive cock on your forehead next.”

Louis gasps, faux affronted. “You _wouldn’t_.”

“I would. I’ll even have it spraying goo all down your face, right into your scruff. Now stop _moving_ before I make good on my word.”

“So charming,” Louis marvels beneath his breath, but he eyes Eleanor with enough reverence that Zayn thinks he actually means it.

The bloke assigned to tattoo Zayn goes by Vin. He rolls his chair over and snaps his rubber gloves over his wrists, flexing his fingers. He seems to be a nice bloke, even if he looks proper hard. His neck is inked all over, top to bottom, and Zayn’s eye keeps catching on just one piece, big and cursive where it’s slashed across his Adam’s apple. _Candice_. Zayn wonders if it’s his mum or his sister or his girlfriend.

“Ready, mate?”

Zayn forces a small smile. “As ever.”

The design's already been transferred to his hand, which means the final step is to make it permanent. As much as Zayn would like to say he isn’t bricking it, it’s been bloody ages since he got his last piece done, leaving him riddled with doubt.

About five months ago, his mum had called to say Uncle Riaz had died and Zayn was out of his head with a need for a distraction, anything to ground him, so he called Karishma and she penciled him in at the shop last minute. She inked a mandala design on his wrist, drawn from one of Yaser’s sketches that Zayn kept saved on his phone.

All Liam could say when Zayn came home with that one was, “They won’t like that placement at work, will they, babe?” Zayn remembers how it made him feel, then. Like a child who never learns his lesson.

Vin is meticulous with his work. He extends the parameters of the mandala from Zayn’s wrist up to each of his knuckles, curve by curve and dot by dot, filling up the skin faster than Zayn can keep track of. It hurts so much that he can feel the throb of it in his throat.

“Zayn,” Louis calls out, and Zayn lifts his eyes in a daze to find Louis looking at him with furrowed brows and a strange little smile. “You good, mate?” 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, slipping back to the surface from where he’d floated off to and offering Louis something akin to a smile of his own. “Yeah, bro, ‘course. All good.”

\--

Ever since uni, Zayn and Louis have followed up every tattoo session of theirs by either getting drunk off their faces or getting stoned half to death. Something about tradition.

Today they settle on the former, mostly because Niall sends them a selfie of himself pointing a finger gun to his temple with a text that said, _Professor cockshit just failed me on another test , drown me in feckin lager !_

They meet him dutifully at Effra’s where he’s already gotten a solid head start, his face splotched red like someone had pinched his cheeks until the skin started to smart. 

“You’re fucking mental, mate,” is all he says when he sees Zayn's tattoo, but Louis clears his throat to get his attention, turning sideways to show off the saran wrap covering his entire upper arm. Niall just rolls his eyes. “Nice try, Lou, but you’ve always been batshit.”

They get a few food platters to share and enough pitchers to intoxicate a village, until their table is covered in empty plates and glasses, spicy wings failing to soak up all the beer they've downed.

Zayn thinks it’s nice. The edges of his brain have gone pleasantly fuzzy and he keeps remembering that he has new ink on his skin, getting a jolt of excitement whenever he looks down at the protective wrap, imagining what it’ll look like when it heals.

It feels _good_ , is all. It feels something close to normal, even, up until the moment he checks his phone and realizes he’s got absolutely no reason to. There’s nothing waiting for him but his background photo, all three of his sisters huddled together and making faces at the screen. Zayn feels a hollowness settle in his chest as the screen dims to black and he taps it back to life, once, twice, three times, as if that will bring something new to his attention. 

It hits him gradually, this unceremonious reminder that there isn’t anyone who’ll worry about him when he’s out late anymore. No one who’ll ask when he’ll be home, no one who’ll check if he needs anything from the shop, no one who’ll kiss him once he’s in through the door. 

When he looks up from his phone he feels short of breath, and he has to blink against the bleary image of Louis and Niall trying to aim roasted nuts into each other’s mouths. Even that makes his stomach twist up something awful, nearly bringing a wounded sound to his lips; if Liam was here, he would laugh at them until the crinkles by his eyes filled with shadows, and Zayn would kiss him. God, he would kiss him until his lips bled.

Zayn taps the table twice before he can actually be sick, an _I’ll be back_ that goes ignored as he pushes out from the booth in search of the loo. He stumbles once on the way but he manages not to trip, and he sags in relief when he finally finds an empty stall. He locks himself inside, leaning his back against the door and covering his face in his hands.

“Don’t fucking do it,” he whispers, his heart pounding loud enough in his ears to drown out the words.

Time passes in a haze until he takes a shaky breath, dropping a hand to his pocket to pull his phone out. He thumbs open his photo library, flipping through the photos that Louis took at the tattoo shop, all different angles of his new tattoo.

He doesn’t know why, but all he wants to do is show Liam. He wants to show him every picture and say, _I know you'll hate it, but love me anyway. Please just love me anyway._

He picks the clearest one and tries to send it, tapping re-send over and over again, but the signal's shoddy and it won’t go through. He gives up when his fingers start to go numb, banging his head back against the door and bringing his hands up by his ears, breathing through his anxiety.

He inhales deep and exhales slow, counts to ten forwards and backwards and forwards again, but for all that he tries to stay afloat, he doesn’t manage to remember much after that.

\--

Zayn wakes up to a head full of insects and a mouth that tastes like an animal might have died in it, but he’s tucked into his own bed. 

It’s a battle to keep his eyes open long enough to realize it’s morning, his clock blinking 11:28am at him. It’s an even bigger battle to convince his limbs to move, reaching out to his phone where it’s idling on his desk. He unlocks it to check for a _good morning_ message from his mum, but with a slow onslaught of dread, finds a message from Liam waiting for him instead.

He has to close his eyes against the notification and swallow his nerves, fighting back the bile that’s crawling up his throat. When his stomach finally settles, he scrounges up enough courage to roll onto his back and lift the phone above his face, thumbing the text open and leaving a smear on his screen. 

All it says is two words. Zayn’s eyes flick up to the message before it, finding two blue ticks by the photo of Zayn’s new tattoo that tell him it had gone through sometime last night. His head spins, but his eyes keep scanning the text again and again. 

_Looks good._

_Looks good._

_Looks good._

He reads it until he can't make sense of the letters anymore, a lump forming his throat just as his vision swims out of focus. He takes a deep, careful breath then rolls over to his side, extending his arm out as far as it will go. When he releases his fingers from around his phone, it’s the skid and crack of it hitting the floor that makes him feel better.

\--

“What do you think of it, then?”

The words are nothing but a rumble, but Zayn’s head snaps up fast enough to give him whiplash.

He’s been lost in his own head for nearly an hour now, trying to talk himself out of leaving the Alfson's Arts Centre altogether. The email had said to be here at 1pm sharp for his interview, but it’s pushing close to 1:45pm now and there's still no sign of the bloke he's meant to meet with. 

He’s losing his mind for a cigarette, but he needs this job something terrible, and he doesn't quite fancy the thick smell of smoke clinging to his clothes if they ever call him in. 

After the drinking-and-texting fiasco three weeks ago, Zayn hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave his bedroom for much more than a snack or a wee. He couldn’t even make it to the call centre for his 9-5 shifts, ringing in sick until he got a warning from HR, and then a second warning, and then a letter of termination. 

He spent a good ten days wallowing in the same pair of joggers after that, letting his phone run out of charge, occasionally plugging it in just to text his mum that he wasn’t dead and that he loved her and that he was sorry.

He knew Louis and Niall meant well, even if their stares unnerved him. He knew that they were just worried for him, but he dreaded every one of their suggestions to go for a walk or to grab dinner or to see a movie, wanting more than anything to stay in and fuck around on his laptop instead. 

Nine times out of ten, he woke himself up with a morning toke then drew in his sketchbook until his wrists started to hurt. He messed around on his computer, downloading movies and clicking through Marvel forums, sometimes posting his art up to see if people liked it.

He insulated himself in a bubble that felt safe enough to live in, but he didn't really register how it impacted anyone else until Louis snapped, bursting into Zayn's room without so much as knocking and blurting, “You’re fucking worrying me, mate.”

Zayn was taken aback at first -- prickly against the intrusion -- but when he registered the panic in Louis’ eyes, all he felt was guilt. He could feel the weight of his self-imposed isolation settle ugly in his stomach, mixed in with a swirl of shame. 

He started getting out of bed more, sitting down with the boys after they were home from work or classes, even making dinner when he could manage it. He started leaving the flat, too, carrying his mobile, calling his sisters. He committed himself to making more of an effort to move on, even if it killed him.

It was a Tuesday that he started to believe it rather than just think it. It felt less like he was pretending to be okay, and more like he was actually mending some of his broken parts. He scrubbed himself clean under the shower head and shaved his face by the sink and even went to his old barber shop for a cut. 

His hair had grown nearly to his shoulders, but Caroline convinced him it would be a travesty to chop it all off. Instead, Zayn left with the sides of his head shaved into a V at the back of his head and the rest of his hair overflowing to one side and curling at the tips.

Louis helped him raid notice boards and skill search websites day and night, trying to find him a job that wasn't another mind-numbing sales gig, but the market was shit for it. 

They found the opening at Alfson's whilst on a break from it all, just when Zayn was ready to give up and hand in his CV at any McDonalds they walked past. But there it was, a posting right on the front doors of the centre.

_ENTRY LEVEL AND SENIOR POSITIONS AVAILABLE. INQUIRE WITHIN._

Which all brings Zayn here, really. Anxiously awaiting his first job interview in years while a bloke fit enough to be a rock star asks him his opinion on art.

He’s a few inches taller than Zayn, his wavy hair parted to one side and touching his shoulders. It’s shabby and a bit tangled where it curls at the ends, but in a way that seems deliberate. He’s dressed stylish and a bit upscale, in a black knit jumper with a silver crucifix glinting over his breastbone, and expensive-looking skinnies with leather patches over the knees. 

Like with most strangers he's attracted to, Zayn thinks he might like draw him sometime, just to see if he can capture his likeness in biro. He turns his gaze forward before he can grab for his sketchbook and entertain the idea, looking right at the installation instead.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” the bloke asks, voice dipping low enough to make Zayn shiver.

It’s one of those modern art things. A few thick chains that are looped around the floor, with an unlit candle standing tall in the middle of them. There are blobs of white wax melted over some parts of the chains, gone dry against the rusty metal.

“Not much to write home about, is it?” Zayn allows.

“Ouch," the bloke remarks, though he sounds kind of amused. Delighted, even. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh. It isn’t that he’s complaining that a young Mick Jagger's talking to him, it’s just that he has to wonder _why_. Zayn's been to the centre plenty of times before just to look at all the new art and let it settle his nerves, and he’s never once been approached before. It's always been an escape of sorts, somewhere he goes just to disappear. 

Louis would tell Zayn it’s the new hair. When Zayn came home from the barber’s, Louis was high enough to call it a ‘game-changer’, whatever the bloody fuck that meant. He also said that there would be all sorts lining up outside their flat to suck Zayn’s brain through his dick, but that was likely just Louis-speak for _looking good, bro._

“Well, what do _you_ think of it?” Zayn forces himself to ask, yanking himself out of his own spiralling thoughts.

“I think it’s alright, really,” he comments, something light in his tone. “Did you notice the candle in the middle? It’s perfectly intact. The wick’s not been lit, but there’s melted wax all over the chains. _Pret-ty_ cool.”

Zayn tilts his head and squints, studying it again. 

"I suppose,” he hedges, waiting for something to jump out at him. “What’s the point of it, though? Clearly the artist thinks it’s some kind of grand statement about, what? A failure at self-containment? I donno. It just all seems a bit pretentious to me.”

“Interesting,” the bloke says. “I mean, I was more going for a ‘no man is an island’ type thing, you know? But I think a failure at self-containment sounds much better, if I’m honest.”

Zayn freezes uncertainly, trying to decide if the bloke is just having him on. When he looks over at him with a cautiously raised eyebrow, he’s faced with the full force of his delighted grin and realizes in an instant that he’s being dead serious. 

Of all the things the bloke could do after having his work insulted -- he could maybe punch Zayn in the nose, for starter’s -- he giggles. He actually, fully _giggles_.

"Oh, God," Zayn huffs, horrified and vaguely bemused. “I’m so sorry, mate. I’m a fucking knobhead. Please ignore everything I’ve just said.”

“Hey, now. I trapped you, to be fair," the bloke laughs, knocking the toe of his boot against Zayn's. “Made you say mean things about my art without knowing that it's my art. Kind of cheeky of me, if you think about it.”

Zayn lets free a laugh of his own, still reeling from his flub. 

“Um, well. Did I mention I love what you’ve done with the chains? And the candle? The unlit wick with all the wax is brilliant."

“You’re a dirty liar!” The bloke grins hugely, eyes dancing with mirth. “You bloody hate it. It’s the worst thing you’ve seen all day, just admit it.”

It’s definitely not the worst piece Zayn’s seen today. It’s not even the worst he’s seen in the last twenty minutes. He throws his thumb over his shoulder.

"Did you know that there's one piece right near the doors that's just a massive black circle? Like, actually just a big black circle on the wall? It's called 'Evolution', if you were wondering. Artist spent six years working on it."

The bloke throws his head back and laughs outright at that, the sound of it making Zayn feel unexpectedly light.

"I happen to think that’s brilliant,” the bloke says, shrugging as he recovers. “Evolution. The big fat circle of life. And anyway, how do you know that one isn't mine, as well? Could be that it’s my proudest achievement. Six years, I worked on that."

"You didn’t," Zayn says confidently, but he examines the bloke’s face just in case. He waggles his eyebrows at Zayn, and Zayn’s confidence crumbles in an instant. "Oh, God. Please tell me you didn’t.”

"I didn't, I didn’t," he quickly assuages as he holds his hand up, his dimple popping deeper into his cheek. "But _this_ beauty’s definitely mine. See, look,” he says, presenting the plaque next to the installation with a proud sweep of his hand. “Harry Styles, 23. That's me.”

Zayn nods at the plaque. “So it is.”

“And you?”

“Sorry?”

“What would your plaque say, had you created a brilliant installation like mine?”

“Oh,” Zayn replies, huffing a laugh. “Zayn. Zayn Malik, 25.”

“Very nice to meet you, Zayn Malik, 25,” Harry says, and the two of them lapse into a companionable silence as they turn back to consider the installation. A beat later, Harry twists on his feet toward Zayn, frowning curiously. "Hey. Not to be creepy about this, but I sort of maybe overheard you talking to Lena a minute ago, about an interview. Do you have one here soon?”

“Oh, um.” Zayn looks over his shoulder at the receptionist Harry's talking about, sat behind a rounded desk in the near distance, then looks back ahead and sighs. “I don’t even know, mate. This Desmond bloke I'm meant to see has been in a meeting for ages, and I’m starting to think I’m gonna have to shag him to get any attention.”

Harry's eyes widen just as Zayn's do, immediately horrified by his own words.

“Did I say that out loud?” Zayn asks, just to be sure.

“Think you really might have,” Harry says, voice awed and eyes glinting like he's trying not to laugh. “Well, alright. I happen to know Des quite well, and he probably wouldn’t take too well to any such sexual advances. His son, on the other hand..."

Harry makes an _eh_ sound and a 50-50 hand gesture. If Zayn was horrified before, he’s positively mortified now. 

“Please don’t say it.”

“Harry Styles,” Harry confirms, giving into the full weight of his laugh. “Son of Des Styles. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Fuck.” Zayn's vaguely impressed with his own ability to keep his foot lodged firmly in his mouth. “I’m on a bloody roll today, aren't I?”

“You really are,” Harry agrees, cocking his head to one side as his eyebrows knit together. “Is it horrible that I'm enjoying it?"

“Right. I’ll just find a nice little hole to die in now,” Zayn replies, nodding decisively. “I’m bound to find something nearby."

Harry smirks again, a happy one that makes Zayn want to run his tongue along the seams of his lips for one delirious moment. 

“I could recommend an installation around here that looks like the perfect place to bury the dead,” he offers, then scrunches up his face thoughtfully. “Or the living, as it were."

Zayn parts his lips to respond just as someone touches his elbow, visibly startling him. He turns to find it’s just Lena.

“Des is ready for you, Mr. Malik,” she says. “You’ve just got to take the lift up to the second floor and you’ll find his office, first door on the left.”

“Cheers,” Zayn says, offering her a thankful smile and watching as she starts to walk back to her desk, seized with anxiety all over again.

“Suppose you don’t have to shag anyone after all, huh?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, landing them on Harry. “Ha ha. Hilarious.”

“Thaaanks,” Harry says, grinning like he’s been complimented. “So, hey, listen. I know you’ve got all this official business to attend to with my dad, but um. I’ll be at the Costas across the road for the next hour or two trying not to drown myself in coffee, so maybe you’d like to join me once you’re done here...?”

_No_ , Zayn wants to say immediately, caught off guard by the offer. _No, that’s probably the worst plan we could possibly agree to, but thanks._

“Alright,” is what he actually says, ears warming up at his evident lack of self-control. There's an embarrassing little jolt in his stomach at the prospect of meeting Harry somewhere after the interview, almost like a reward for getting through it unscathed. “I’ll, um — I’ll see how it goes here.”

Harry smiles again, but it's a softer twist to his mouth this time, something relieved in the slant of it. 

"Well, alright then," he says, giving Zayn a decisive nod as he slowly starts to back away from him towards the exit, their eyes locked together the entire time he goes.

“Don't break my heart, Mr. Malik," he calls out once he's right near the doors, face slipping into another one of his wide, dimpled grins that leave Zayn breathless before he turns on his heels to go.

—

The interview runs late, and Zayn feels a disappointment nagging at him the entire time he walks across the street to the Costas once he's done, preparing himself for Harry to be gone by the time he gets there.

Harry’s not gone, though. He's holding a table for two by the windows and focusing all his attention on his laptop, eyebrows pulled together and bottom lip pinched between two fingers. He looks up a moment or two after Zayn spots him, almost like he can sense his presence, and his face clears into a grin like he’s just as pleased to see him. Zayn only realizes he’s staring when someone bumps into him and reminds him he’s got to move. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as he apologizes before weaving his way through the packed shop, past the overloaded queue and over to Harry’s table instead.

“Hey,” Zayn greets, pulling the empty arm chair out and setting his messenger bag on the floor next to it. “Sorry that took a while.”

“Just glad you made it, really,” Harry replies, voice shockingly low again. 

The first thing Zayn notices when he sits down is that Harry's got tattoos; loads of them. He’s got his black knit jumper off, draped over the back of his chair, and he’s just in a white t-shirt now. There’s almost enough ink on one of his arms to constitute a full sleeve, if it weren’t for the way they were scattered about with gaps in between. Harry rubs a hand up and down his inked bicep, the movement rucking up his shirt sleeve, and beneath his fingers, Zayn can make out something that looks like a ship.

“You don’t look too upset, though, which is a good sign. Did it go well?”

"Oh. Yeah, yeah it did. Ran a bit long,” Zayn says, blinking out of his concentration. He glances behind his shoulder at the queue before looking back at Harry. “Didn’t think this place would be so packed.”

“Lunch rush,” Harry replies apologetically, lowering his laptop screen and frowning over Zayn’s shoulder. “We could go someplace else, if you’re hungry?”

“It’s all good,” Zayn dismisses, breaking into a small smile. Harry looks soft like this, backlit by the window, his angles bathed in the dim lighting from inside the coffee shop. His eyes are a mossy green that Zayn hasn’t come across before, and Zayn remembers, suddenly, that only 2% of the world’s population have green eyes. That doesn't seem like very much. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“Well, you had me on the edge of my seat, didn’t you?” Harry replies, shifting all the way forward in his chair, the gesture exaggerated enough to make Zayn laugh. “No, but really. Did it wind up okay? Did my father bite? Sorry about him, he can be a bit intense.”

“There wasn't any biting, no," Zayn assures him. "To be fair, he might be saving that for round two.”

“Ohhh, proper kinky,” Harry replies, eyes lighting up. “I don't blame him. The Styles men have an irresistible charm about them, don’t they?”

“Mate,” Zayn groans. “You’re putting images in my head that could get me fired before I’m hired.”

“Sorry,” Harry laughs, smooth and easy. “I’ve been told I could use a new sense of humour. My mate Nick says I’ve got the mentality of a four year old.”

Zayn shrugs, smiling. "Better than three.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “That’s what I always say."

“Great minds,” Zayn laughs softly, trying to keep the flush from reaching his cheeks. “So, tell me. Do you sit around coffee shops waiting for strangers to join you often?”

“Only when they look like you,” Harry purrs, fluttering his lashes. Zayn roll his eyes to disguise the way the warmth inside of him multiplies, thankful when Harry keeps talking. “But for your information, Mr. Malik, I wasn’t _just_ waiting for you. Now that you’re here, I suppose I may as well try and enjoy your company.”

“You poor sod,” Zayn laughs, eyes fixing onto Harry’s. “Sounds like a big ask.”

Harry shrugs, lips twisting up into a smirk. 

“Try me,” he says, something genuine tucked into his tone. So Zayn does.

\--

Within the hour, the Costas fills out to the point that Harry and Zayn are getting dirty looks just for having a table. Instead of ordering another round of biscuits and hot chocolate to prolong their stay, they decide to pack up their things and go for a walk.

The weather’s still nice out, if a bit on the breezy side now that the sun is starting to sink in the sky. They head to a park nearby, and Harry stops them at the ice cream lorry parked outside to get them a scoop each, surprising Zayn with a serving of vanilla covered in sprinkles.

They find the quietest patch of grass they can manage and set their bags down to mark their territory, settling down side-by-side with their legs bent at the knees, landing so close to one another that they touch at the hip.

Zayn’s gotten to know quite a bit about Harry in the short amount of time he’s known him. He’s learned that Harry’s one of two siblings, and that he looks up to his older sister Gemma and his mum Anne, who raised him nearly on their own, more than anyone else. He learns that Harry grew up working in a bakery in Cheshire and that he had his first kiss with a girl against a tree and his first kiss with a boy in the break room at work. He learns that Harry went to one of London’s best culinary schools, and that he’s writing his first recipe book now, which he usually only finds the inspiration to work on in the dead of night, when everyone else is asleep. He finds out that Harry helps out at the arts centre sometimes, and that Des lets him show his work whenever he’s feeling charitable.

Harry’s back in his knit jumper now, and he’s set his ice cream aside in favour of pulling his hair up into a little bun, a few wisps blowing in the wind near his temples. He picks up his spoon when he's done and sucks it clean, squinting out in the distance.

“So, like,” he says, pulling the spoon free with a pop and dropping it back into his cup, looking over at Zayn. “You studied business, but… you do art on the side.”

“Something like that, yeah,” Zayn agrees, nodding. “Or I used to, anyway. I’m trying to get back into it now.”

Harry frowns and looks back ahead, quiet for a moment. "Why’d you stop?”

Zayn’s skin prickles as he thinks about it. He sets his ice cream by his side and wipes his cold hands over his jeans. He tries to remember the last time he actually went out and did a piece of graffiti, or the last time he did up a simple canvas at home, cloth spread out over the floors and all the windows open, mask over his face to keep out the chemicals. Maybe for his mum’s birthday a few years ago. Something for the house.

It always scared her sleepless, when he went out to do it proper. She worried that he would get caught and be thrown in the nick, blasted with a fine they couldn’t afford. He didn’t really understand why the coppers would be bothered with him out of everyone else, but Liam had joined her in nagging him eventually, telling Zayn it’s always best to err on the side of caution. 

He had even pulled the boyfriend lawyer card once or twice, Zayn remembers, half-joking that it wasn’t proper for Zayn to be out breaking the law when Liam was trying to keep the streets clean. Zayn had mostly let it go, because Liam would blow him quite convincingly when he wanted Zayn to agree to something, and Zayn hadn’t exactly hated the idea of someone loving him enough to want him safe.

“Got sidetracked, I suppose,” Zayn replies belatedly, lost in his own head. “Real life got in the way.”

“And art?” Harry asks quietly, looking back at him in his periphery. “Is that not as real for you?”

The way he words it, earnest and thoughtful, makes Zayn’s throat close up for just a second. He swallows against the tightness and shrugs a shoulder, looking over to meet Harry’s gaze. He pauses when he does, losing his train of thought as he realizes how close they are, nearly going cross-eyed just to keep Harry in focus. His eyes are even greener like this, specked with hazel, clear as water.

“Just wasn’t real for anyone else,” Zayn says beneath his breath, eyes slipping down to Harry’s mouth.

Harry’s looking at him intently, all furrowed brows and serious eyes, as if he's searching for something that you could only find scattered in the hidden crevices of Zayn’s being. Just when Zayn is about to force his own gaze away from the intense stare, his stomach twisting up at the sheer weight of it, Harry murmurs, “Can I kiss you?”

Zayn shudders bodily at the unexpected question, feeling the words root him in his spot. There’s nothing timid or abashed about the way Harry asks, and it makes Zayn’s head spin with how hard it is just to take a breath or think of a reply. The only thought that knocks around his head is _Liam, Liam, Liam_ , and he almost huffs out a laugh at how pathetic it makes him feel.

Harry doesn’t break his stare, though, and Zayn can feel his own resolve crumbling around the edges with every passing moment, his eyes falling shut despite himself. He swallows against every hesitation thrumming in his veins and nods, just the once.

Zayn doesn't see it, but he feels Harry’s fingers lift to his jawline like electricity, his grip tender as he uses his thumb to hold him steady, pressing their foreheads together. Harry’s fingers are dry but cold from the ice cream, soothing against Zayn’s overheated skin, and he's sure they’re the only thing that keep him from floating away when Harry’s nose nudges against his, making his breath hitch. 

It feels like forever before Harry finally, finally gaps the last inch of space between them, his lips gentle and warm and all-encompassing when they close over Zayn’s. For all his apprehension, Zayn falls into him just like breathing.

\--

Zayn doesn't know how it happens, but they kiss until his lips go numb.

When it starts to get dark out, they get up to walk together again and Harry gives Zayn his number outside the tube station, like a scene from a film. He scribbles it in biro on the inside of Zayn's arm with a smiley face underneath, and Zayn’s heart pounds a restless rhythm the entire time, making music inside his chest. 

There’s a voice in his head that tells him things like this don't happen to him, that it might be the last time he has the courage to be so reckless, so he pushes up to his toes after Harry’s done, holding him by the neck and urging him downward until their lips crash together midway.

He kisses him right in plain view of everyone who walks by, again and again and again, letting the final touch of their lips last long enough that he feels the phantom pressure of Harry’s smiling mouth imprinted against his own the entire ride home.

He never once texts him.

\--

“ _That’s_ him?” Louis hisses, eyes bugging out of their sockets.

Zayn clamps a quick hand over his mouth and whispers, “Don’t,” in the most dangerous tone he can manage, which is likely to have come out less as a threat and more as a desperate plea.

Louis doesn’t bite or lick Zayn's palm through a scowl like he usually would. He just raises his eyebrows and lifts a hand up in a supposed truce, his other still gripping their shopping basket by his side.

Zayn shoots him one last, withering look, then drops his hand away and curls his fingers into a fist, bracing himself for what's to come. 

"Harry!” Louis crows at the top of his lungs the very moment he's free. Zayn squeezes his eyes shut, just barely managing not to climb into the freezer with the boxed pizzas or shove Louis into the display of sweets behind him in retaliation. He’s so embarrassed he could die.

It's his own fault, really, for letting his guard down a few nights ago and telling Louis about his encounter with Harry from last week. He and Louis had just shared a bowl and an extra large pizza, and Zayn had been high enough to say something truly unfortunate about how he’d felt like he was in a rom com when Harry kissed him in the park, and then something even more unfortunate about how he hadn’t had the courage to text him afterwards, his stomach churning and his mind wandering to Liam every time he tried.

Louis hadn’t even laughed at him, the loyal bastard that he is, always one to know when Zayn just needs to feel like he’s normal. Zayn’s appreciated that quality in his best friend plenty of times before, the simple way that Louis manages to know what he needs before Zayn knows it himself, but he doesn't appreciate it right now, with the full weight of Harry’s confused stare burning holes into his back.

Zayn counts to ten and takes a quiet breath of preparation before he turns on his heel, giving Harry a careful smile. _Please don't think I'm crazy._

Harry’s face breaks out into a slow grin of realization, his forehead smoothing out when he sees Zayn, and Zayn tries not to visibly sag in relief. He drops a box he’s holding from the organic aisle into his basket before rubbing a hand through his hair and swaggering over to them, eyes drinking in Zayn each step of the way.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t even recognize your voice,” he says, his words dripping out slow as honey. He pecks Zayn on the cheek and wraps him up in a one-armed hug that catches Zayn off-guard, large hand squeezing his shoulder. When he breaks away, he smiles down at Zayn’s lips and murmurs, “Hi. It’s really good to see you.”

Zayn responds with a vague sound of greeting, his voice and breath caught in his throat as he scans Harry’s features from up close, recommitting them to memory. Thankfully, Louis clears his throat a moment later, breaking Zayn out of his daze and pulling Harry’s attention to him. 

“Hiii, sorry," Harry grins and offers Louis his hand. "I’m Harry.”

“ _Very_ nice to meet you, Harry,” Louis says with one of his sharp-toothed smiles, squeezing Harry’s hand a bit too hard if Harry’s nervous laugh is anything to go by. “I would be Louis, Zayn’s flatmate.”

“Good to meet you, Louis.” Harry smiles, eyes darting over Louis’ face with a certain amount of fear once he’s allowed his hand back. He wrings out his wrist and looks back to Zayn a beat later, a gentler smile settling on his lips, his eyes traveling over Zayn's face again. “I can’t believe I’ve actually run into you. Do you live around here?”

"As if we could afford that,” Louis snorts to himself.

“We live in Brixton,” Zayn explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just in the neighbourhood to sign some papers at the centre-”

“Right. Oh, right,” Harry says with pinched eyebrows, looking confused, but Zayn sees the exact moment that his face clears. "Wait. Did you say you were signing papers?”

"Got the call today," Zayn replies, lips twitching upwards as he shrugs. "Guess your dad liked me after all."

“Mate,” Harry says, grinning so big now that it must hurt. “That’s incredible. I’d wanted to check in with you all week, but I realized I hadn’t asked for your number back--”

“I know,” Zayn interjects, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck. “I’m really, really sorry I didn’t message, it’s just been so hectic--”

“No, no,” Harry cuts in immediately. “I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot, honestly. I just wanted to see how you were going, is all. I’m glad it’s all worked out.”

“We were just about to celebrate, actually,” Louis chimes in, holding up their shopping basket. It's got two six-packs of beer, one bottle of vodka, a deluxe bag of Tortilla crisps and three frozen pizzas.

Harry laughs. “All the necessities, then.”

“And there’s enough for an extra person," Louis sing-songs, possessing the subtlety of a brick flying through a window.

“ _Louis_ ,” Zayn warns, turning disparaging eyes onto him. They have a tense, silent conversation before Zayn shakes his head and meets Harry’s gaze again, apologetic. “Please don’t pay him any mind, I'm sure you’ve got a million better places to be.”

“Actually," Harry hedges. "I was just going to have a night in, try out some new recipes. But I wouldn’t say no to a bit of a lads night, if you were alright with me coming along? I’m not a rowdy drunk, if that’s any comfort. My mum says I just get a bit… cuddly.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad," Louis says, mischief colouring his voice as he elbows Zayn's side. “That's okay, isn't it, Zayn? Better than me, anyway. I just like to get weepy, contemplate my existence and such.”

Harry laughs, then, the same smooth, easy sound that makes Zayn’s heart all but burst out of his chest. Zayn reckons he might be well and truly fucked.

\--

True to his word, Harry’s a distressingly cuddly drunk.

Back at the flat, the three of them are joined by Niall, and they throw back too many bottles of beer around the small sitting room, well on their way to sloshed. 

Within the hour, Louis and Niall wind up playing FIFA on the floor in front of the telly while Harry and Zayn sit on the sofa behind them, feet propped up on the coffee table as they call out wildly unhelpful remarks. 

It might just be the haze of the alcohol, but their touches seem to linger longer and longer with each passing moment, Harry’s fingertips curling against the pulsepoint on Zayn’s wrist whenever he asks if Zayn wants another beer, Zayn’s thumb sweeping over the apple of Harry’s cheek when he sees a stray lash there. 

By the time they break out the second six-pack, Harry’s given up on the discretion, moving on to running his hand up and down Zayn’s thigh, his fingers warm and solid and entirely too close to the inseam of his jeans. 

Zayn's uncomfortably aware of them, and just when he thinks he’ll give himself a moment’s reprieve by getting up to use the loo, Harry turns liquid eyes onto him, landing on Zayn's lips. 

“Hi,” he murmurs, a softness to his tone. Zayn’s far too dazed to return the greeting, just staring at Harry’s mouth as his own begins to tingle, and Harry smiles underneath the attention, eyes sliding back up to Zayn’s. "Are you ever going to kiss me again?”

Zayn’s breath catches, his eyes flitting back up to Harry’s. He feels his stomach twist into knots, ones he thinks might never unravel again. He watches Harry watch him, comforted by the patience layered beneath his stare, like Harry's prepared to wait forever to be kissed, if that’s what Zayn needs. 

It’s not what he needs, he thinks. Zayn isn’t sure of much, but he’s certain that waiting to feel the give of Harry's mouth against his again is not what he needs. He shuts his eyes and dips in closer so their foreheads touch, pausing a hair’s breadth away from Harry’s lips before bridging the distance between them, covering Harry’s mouth gently in his own, a sound of surprise sticking in his throat. 

Harry leans into it, lifting his hand from Zayn’s thigh to curl his fingertips just beneath his chin, urging him nearer. He parts his lips invitingly and Zayn kisses him again, deeper, firmer, with more conviction. Harry’s easy for it, relaxing his mouth and coaxing Zayn’s tongue out for a gentle suck, the feeling traveling straight to Zayn’s cock.

Zayn feels like there’s electricity zipping through him. Harry’s lips are dizzying enough to make him aware of the _thud, thud, thud_ of his heart, his thoughts swimming in and out of focus until something solid slams against his arm, startling him out of the kiss with a sharp inhale.

“Oy!” Louis chastises, his laughing voice akin to a bucket of ice over the head. “Get a bloody room, will you?” 

Zayn exhales against Harry’s lips, trying to regain his composure. Harry sounds just as breathless when he laughs, taking Zayn’s fingers in his and squeezing them tight.

"Hey," he murmurs, making Zayn blink his eyes open again, still dazed. “Did you want to show me your room?”

Zayn nods at him mindlessly before giving into the itch to lean in and kiss him, hoping it’s enough of an answer.

\--

The last time Zayn had sex, it had been with Liam. 

Quick. Efficient. An afterthought, maybe.

Zayn remembers some things, like the way his mind had strayed to an email his boss had sent him even as he’d tried to relax his throat and swallow Liam down. He remembers the way Liam had twisted his hand over Zayn’s cock after, touching fingertips to the slit and encouraging Zayn to come. 

Zayn remembers that he did come, eventually, and the way it took him hours of tossing and turning next to Liam to finally fall asleep. He remembers that no one else has touched him since.

“Just to warn you,” Zayn murmurs from his perch on the mattress between Harry’s thighs, breathing over the head of Harry’s cock. He curls his fingers around the base and lifts it from Harry’s belly towards his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown. “It’s been a while.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry breathes as his back arches off the bed, voice already strained. “Anything, um. Anything you do, I’m probably going to like.”

Zayn wants to express his skepticism. He wants to reiterate that he’s out of practice and for Harry to lower his expectations, but he keeps it all to himself, giving Harry’s cock a few cursory strokes, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the very tip. 

“Do you want me to, like,” he murmurs, licking his lips. “Do you want me to just use my mouth, or do you want me to use a few fingers?”

“Um,” Harry says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Do you have any lube?”

Harry can’t see him, but Zayn nods anyway, closing his lips over the head of his cock in a gentle, curious suck before easing off of him completely to settle back on his haunches, earning himself a whine fit for a toddler.

"Just a sec," Zayn says, huffing a laugh at Harry’s dramatics as he leans across the mattress to open one of his desk drawers. He’s at an awkward angle, but he roots around its contents as best as he can and finally manages to catch his fingers around the bottle of lube that’s tucked behind his notebooks in the back.

“Okay,” he says uselessly, settling back in between Harry’s legs with a deep breath. His heart’s pounding wildly, but he finds himself incapable of doing anything else with the bottle, just squeezing the weight of it lightly between the uncertain flex of his fingers.

“Okay,” Harry repeats, pushing up to his elbows, his hair a wavy mess where it frames his face and his eyes gone a hazy green. He must sense some of the lingering nervousness that Zayn feels, because in the next moment, he’s shifting up into a sitting position with a frown, curling a hand around Zayn’s neck.

“Hey,” he whispers, eyebrows cinched in concern as he thumbs Zayn's jawline, looking down at his lips. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not up for. I could put my clothes back on and we could go back out to the sitting room, make fun of your friends some more.”

Zayn is helpless do anything but laugh, the tension breaking around them as he drops his forehead to Harry’s collarbone, allowing himself a moment to sort through his thoughts. 

“It’s not that,” he says eventually, embarrassment slipping into his tone. “I do. I do want to, it's just. It’s been a while.”

“Alright. Alright, that’s perfectly fine,” Harry murmurs, cupping the back of Zayn’s head and scratching his fingertips between strands of his hair. “We can slow down if you’d like. Or you could tell me what you’re comfortable with, and we could do that.”

Zayn shakes his head, lifting himself up to meet Harry’s eyes, dropping his voice to a whisper. “What are _you_ up for?”

Harry shrugs and looks down at Zayn’s lips, seeming just as patient as he did when he was waiting to be kissed on the sofa, even with his cheeks gone a hectic pink and his lips swollen from being kissed. Zayn feels a painful and unexpected tug of affection for him, so pronounced he’s surprised he doesn’t have to lift a hand to soothe it.

“I could go for anything,” Harry replies quietly, shrugging again. “We could do as little or as much as you wanted. You could just kiss me, if that’s what you wanted. Or you could,” he says, his voice going softer. “You could fuck me, if that’s what you wanted.”

Zayn’s breath hitches as a shiver tumbles down his spine, trying to think how that might feel. How it would feel to have someone around him, for the first time in so long. How it would feel to have Harry around him. Harry who asked Zayn out for coffee after Zayn insulted his art work. Harry who bought him hot chocolate and took him to the park and kissed him with their lips still cold from ice cream. Harry who would put his clothes back on right now, if Zayn asked him to. Zayn knows there’s a box of condoms in the washroom cupboard just outside his bedroom, and suddenly that’s all he can think about. Being as close as he can to him.

“Okay,” Zayn exhales, barely a sound at all. “Maybe, if, like. On your hands and knees.”

Harry nods, his eyes going glazed and bright where they settle on Zayn’s lips again. He leans in a moment later, giving him a gentle kiss. 

“I can do that,” he says, still nodding against Zayn's mouth. “Anything you want.”

Zayn kisses him back once, twice, three times, letting it linger before he forces himself to break away with a small, wounded sound.

“I’ll just grab a condom,” he says, meeting Harry’s eyes. “While you get comfortable.”

Harry nods at him, pecking him one last time before he starts to give him some room to crawl free. Zayn does, and Harry maneuvers himself to get onto his belly in the meantime, elbows settling against the bed as Zayn wanders out of the room. 

Zayn wrings his wrists as he makes his way into the loo, urging his whirring thoughts to slow down. At the sink, he pops open the cabinet and grabs the box of condoms, flipping it around to read the back to make sure they’re not expired. His eyes skim over the dates three times before he can focus enough to register the numbers.

When he slips back into the bedroom, he has to pause in the doorway just to take in the image Harry makes. He’s unbearably beautiful like this, stretched out on his stomach and elbows, back bowed and bathed in blue light from the window. He's tied his hair up, gathered in a bun now with tiny wisps of it curling with sweat at his nape. He’s typing intently on his phone, oblivious to Zayn watching him, but even just from his profile, Zayn can see his eyebrows pinched in concentration.

“I found a few,” Zayn says, just to make his presence known as he starts to walk back to the bed, Harry's eyes moving up at the sound of his voice.

“Sick,” he replies, looking at him with a smile. “Was picking out a playlist for us.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, throwing the box of condoms on the bed next to the lube so he can rid himself of his boxers, pushing them down and off his legs, so they're both finally naked. He climbs up behind Harry on the bed, flattening himself over his back carefully and hooking his chin over his shoulder. 

“Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“I like this one. It's called ‘Slow Jams’, got a lot of comments,” Harry says, thumbing down through the responses and giving a laugh as he reads one aloud. “'So good that it made me cry halfway through an orgasm.’ I think we’ve got a winner.”

Zayn presses his forehead to the back of Harry’s shoulder and shakes his head, laughing.

“There you have it,” he agrees with a nod, pulling up from his position so he’s sitting back on his haunches, resting his hands on the backs of Harry’s thighs as he waits for him.

_Take Me to Church_ by Hozier filters through the air a moment later, and it should be a ridiculous song to get off to, but it makes Zayn shudder in anticipation, cock twitching against his stomach.

Harry sets his phone down on Zayn’s desk, the sound of the music low but present, and pushes up into position onto his hands and knees. Zayn watches him, breath catching at the way he looks when he rolls his shoulders and drops his head between them, his back flexing in the low light. 

“Alright,” Harry says quietly, just as his phone sings _she tells me worship in the bedroom_. “Ready whenever you are.”

Zayn allows himself a breath in preparation and nods. He takes it one step at a time even as his head spins with want, reminding himself there’s no rush. It’s hard for things to stay clear in his mind, blurring together as soon as he flicks the bottle of lube open. One moment he’s warming up the slick on his fingers, and the next he's opening Harry up for him, lost in the feeling of it.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed before Harry asks for another but he complies, pressing a second finger alongside the first, mesmerized by the slow stretch of Harry’s rim around him as he presses it deeper and deeper, until it’s disappeared to the second knuckle. 

Zayn goes steady, spilling more lube down his fingers and watching Harry’s every reaction as he works him open, twisting his fingers further inside of him until Harry gasps and tenses, his back bowing as he grabs the sheets in his fists and pulls them to his body at the shock of sensation.

“Another?” Zayn asks, and Harry nods, voice shaky and barely there when he says, “Yeah. Yes, please.”

Enough songs have passed that Zayn’s lost count, but by the time _Drunk in Love_ has cycled through, Harry’s shaking around three of Zayn’s fingers, holding himself rigidly and panting like he’s overwhelmed.

“Tell me when,” Zayn urges gently, flicking his eyes up slope of Harry’s back as he crooks his fingers.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry replies, the curse twisted up into a whine that makes Zayn still his movements.

Zayn worries his lip between his teeth, earning himself a displeased sound as he eases his fingers all the way out, leaving him empty. “What do you need, Haz? Do you want me now?”

Harry waits for a few beats of silence before he nods, inhaling audibly and releasing it slow. 

“Now,” he agrees, nodding again. “Please, now.”

“Okay,” Zayn replies, his heart stuttering in his chest like it might want to stop beating altogether, and he barely manages to keep his fingers steady long enough to roll the condom onto himself and slick himself up with more lube, the pressure around his cock making his eyes flutter shut before he squeezes himself around the base.

Zayn leans over Harry’s back once he's under control, peppering kisses down his spine, each press of his lips gentler than the one before it. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Harry replies and nods, shivering beneath Zayn’s lips. “So good, trust me.”

Zayn nods, kissing down to the very base of Harry’s spine. He glances down between their bodies, holding his breath as he lines their hips up and guides himself inside of Harry, pressing inside of him in one smooth, slow stroke.

“Fuck,” Harry exhales. Zayn stills cautiously at the sound of his voice, but Harry pushes back against him in the next moment, taking more of his length in with a quiet gasp. “Don’t stop.”

Zayn’s throat goes dry, fingers tightening around Harry’s hips experimentally as he rolls his hips forward once. “Like that?”

“Like that,” Harry replies breathily, lifting up slightly on his hands and easing his hips back again, making Zayn gasp this time. “Oh, _god_ , Zayn.”

Zayn keeps his eyes trained on the point where their bodies meet, entranced by the sight of Harry rolling his hips back again and again, building up a gradual rhythm until Zayn blinks himself out of his reverie and starts meeting him thrust for thrust, coaxing little gasps out of Harry with every forward snap of his hips, mesmerized by the way they meet in the centre.

It escalates -- quicker, harder, deeper -- until Zayn can faintly hear his headboard scrape against the wall with his every thrust, the two of them picking up momentum until Zayn can’t keep upright, collapsing against Harry’s back and grasping onto the sheets as he continues to roll his hips against him, panting loud enough to drown out the music still playing on Harry’s phone. 

The press of their bodies is sweaty and pulsating and slick and it’s _good_ , it’s so good that Zayn’s mind blanks out for a minute or ten. He only manages to come back to the confines of his body when he hears Harry’s voice wrapping around his name, tapering off into a litany of “gonna come, gonna come, gonna come” that has Zayn barreling toward his own release.

Zayn’s delirious -- delirious with sensation, delirious with want, delirious with a need to come -- but he has just enough presence of mind to slide his hand down Harry’s torso and take a hold of his cock, squeezing around the length of him one moment and feeling it pulse between the webs of his fingers the next. Harry lets free a tortured moan, bearing down on Zayn’s cock in a vice grip so hot and tight that Zayn chokes on nothing.

It’s a blink of a moment before Harry shudders all over, pushing his hips back into Zayn’s again even though he must be too sensitive for it not to hurt now, and it’s so blindingly heady that Zayn can only manage a handful of thrusts before he holds himself still deep inside of Harry, careening over the edge as he’s hit with a flash of white.

\--

When Zayn blinks his eyes open, he thinks he's dreaming. 

Harry's slouched quietly in the middle of his room, fingers combing through the wet strands of his hair, looking something other than human in the soft glow of morning light.

He’s wearing nothing but his skewed boxers, fabric hanging low on his hips so that his love handles spill over at the sides, barely visible in the glint of yellow from the window. He’s tying up his hair with practiced ease, looping a black tie around the bun once, twice, three times before pulling the hair in opposite directions to secure it. 

There’s something almost sacred about the sight of him, stripped down bare and impervious to Zayn watching him, but Zayn bites his tongue against the dangerous confession.

“Morning,” he murmurs instead, lips quirking when Harry turns surprised eyes onto him. There’s a glimmer of something pleased in his gaze, mouth twisting up into a smile to rival Zayn’s. 

“You’re awake,” he replies quietly, sloping over to the bed and crawling ungracefully up the mattress until he’s looming on top of Zayn, a hand to each side of his head. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Zayn laughs as he turns onto his back, curling one arm up over his head, the other crossed over his chest. They just watch each other for a moment, Zayn sleepily and Harry dopily, but Harry’s the first to break, grinning as he dips down to sweep his lips over Zayn’s in a minty sweet kiss. When he breaks away, it's to flop back down by Zayn's side, clumsy enough to land a knee in his thigh.

“Louis said I could grab a shower and some mouthwash,” he yawns, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “Figured I’d let you sleep while I got ready.”

“Good call,” Zayn says with a tired hum, turning onto his side to face him better. “Could sleep for a bloody year.”

Harry links their legs together, nodding in agreement. “I have to go in a minute, though. Got a meeting with my layout designer, for the book.”

Zayn hums vaguely in response, eyes falling shut of their own accord, too tempted by the quiet that surrounds them.

“Zayn,” Harry whines, laughing as he flicks his nose. “Don’t fall asleep while I'm here.”

“M’not,” Zayn says, even though he definitely could, given the chance. “Wide awake.”

“C’mon,” Harry urges, curling a hand against the side of his neck and pecking his lips. “Open your eyes. I want to ask you something.”

Zayn slips one eye open, curious.

Harry holds his gaze, something serious shrouding his features that makes Zayn blink both his eyes open properly, feeling a new wash of nerves.

“Okay,” he replies, nodding.

Harry takes a breath like he’s preparing himself for something, exhaling it in a steady stream that makes Zayn even more nervous. 

“It’s not a big thing if you don’t want to, but," he says, pausing. "Will you, um. Will you text me this time, once I leave?”

There’s a sincerity to the concern that makes Zayn’s chest fill to the brim with guilt. Part of him wants to quell Harry's worries immediately, but another part screams at him to tell the truth. That they probably shouldn’t go there. That it’s a bad time for Zayn, to be starting up something so new. That there’s Liam who Harry doesn’t yet know about and that there's Zayn who's still a bit fucked up inside. 

But with Harry’s earnest gaze on him, he can’t seem to manage a single word of it. He can only pull him in for another kiss, eyes closing against the world as his mind spins in circles.

In the end, the only thought that sticks is _I couldn’t stay away from you if I tried._

\--

Louis’s got a look on his face. 

Zayn’s just seen Harry off with a travel mug full of creamy, sugary coffee and a container of fresh fruit for the road, and Louis’s got a look on his face, like he’s _smug_ about something.

“Whatever it is, I don’t wanna hear it,” Zayn grunts, walking over to flop down on the couch next to Louis, stealing his bowl of cereal right from his hands. “Where’s Niall?

“Studio practice with some band,” Louis replies. “Are you quite finished stealing my breakfast? I know you've just had the rebound fuck of your life and need to replenish minerals, but there’s plenty more in the kitchen you can pour for yourself.”

Just for that, Zayn tips the bowl up to his lips and swallows all that’s left of Louis’ soggy cereal breakfast before handing the empty bowl back, licking his lips. “Finished now.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “Isn’t getting laid supposed to make you more pleasant?”

“I’m a bloody delight,” Zayn retorts, ignoring the warmth that creeps up his cheeks.

“A right ray of sunshine,” Louis replies drily, rolling his eyes. “Enough with the modesty, anyway, give us a bit of goss. How big’s his cock? I’ve got money on this.”

“ _Louis_."

“It’s a valid question!"

“You didn't start a bet on the size of Harry’s cock.”

“20 quid. Niall says he’s one of them tall blokes that have small pricks, but I don’t buy it. Curly’s packing heat,” Louis says, leaning back into the sofa and stretching his arms over the back of it. “Go on, give us some measurements.”

Just to be an arsehole, Zayn lifts his hands up, holding them about two inches apart and shrugging.

"Give or take."

“Fuck off. You’re having me on.”

Zayn reduces the space in his hands by an inch, squinting at the tiny sliver of air between his palms.

“Zayn,” Louis whines. “Don’t mess with me when I’m high.”

Zayn widens his eyes, fixing Louis with an incredulous look. It’s not even noon and he’s managed to smoke up without him. He shakes his head and huffs a laugh, widening his hands until the gap between them seems like an accurate measurement of Harry’s prick, trying not to flush at the memory of it.

"Just about," he murmurs.

“Jesus christ,” Louis mutters, duly impressed. “Seems like I’m getting my money's worth.”

“I want in,” Zayn tells him as the tips of his ears go hot, grabbing the empty bowl and pushing up to his feet, ambling towards the kitchen to get them more cereal and avoid Louis' follow-up questions. “Fifty percent.”

“Thirty.”

“Forty.”

Louis huffs, and Zayn can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“Fine,” he calls out behind him. “But next time, I want some bloody pictures.”

\--

After the bliss of the weekend slips away between his fingers, Zayn spends most of his days at the art centre trying to make a good impression. 

He’s been running around for weeks organizing the _Generation Next_ exhibition that’s opening at the start of next month, overseeing it from top to bottom. Des gave him the keys to the entire project, telling Zayn he wants him to make it his own, and Zayn's been pretending to have half an idea what he's doing ever since.

Whenever it gets to be too much, he finds himself sneaking away to a quiet corner to text Harry a series of bewildered question marks, letting his responses bring him back down to earth.

Harry’s great for a distraction, as it turns out. In the last week alone, he’s sent Zayn a string of impassioned messages about olive paste (Zayn hadn’t even known anyone had that many feelings about olive paste), a Vine of a baby goat bleating repeatedly that apparently made Harry laugh so hard he had to grab for his asthma inhaler, and a selfie of himself scowling because he’d burnt some risotto after getting distracted by a photo gallery of babies wearing animal ears.

But there are days when just Harry’s messages alone can’t keep Zayn afloat. Days when Liam texts him and Zayn has to shut his phone off to keep himself from being overrun with anxiety; days when his fingers won’t stop shaking as he sorts through stacks and stacks of artist biographies, his vision swimming out of focus and his heart beating too fast for comfort. 

Harry's good at sensing something's off, because he always seems to be there when Zayn needs it most, showing up with all sorts of sweets and a container of something warm he’s just cooked, bringing Zayn a thermos of coffee and sometimes a litre of water, too, just to make sure he's keeping hydrated.

When Zayn isn’t too prickly to allow it, Harry will give Zayn a cuddle right in the middle of the centre and murmur, “Come outside with me?” into his temple.

They’ll sit on the kerb out back, a secluded smoking area where you can only go if you’ve got a staff card, and they’ll share a biscuit or a chocolate croissant between them, passing a paper cup of coffee back-and-forth until it’s gone lukewarm. 

Zayn will smoke a cigarette with the comfort of Harry's body heat nearby, and at the end of it all, Harry will hold him steady by the neck and kiss him again and again and again, until his bones click back into place.

\--

It becomes something like routine, to spend all their time together after Zayn's done with work.

They go on ‘date nights’, as Harry likes to call them. They go to see films, to have dinner, to share frozen yoghurt, and sometimes, if Zayn’s particularly lucky, to just lie on the ground by the river with greasy McDonalds wrappers surrounding them, picking out lewd shapes in the sky and laughing until their stomachs hurt. 

They go out almost every night, and they go home with each other just as often, shuttling back and forth between their flats depending on convenience. 

If they’re too tired to do more than just snog, they’ll stay at Zayn and Louis and Niall's, but if they want to be alone without a flatmate in sight -- if Zayn wants to bend Harry over the back of the sofa, or if Harry wants to map out every inch of Zayn's skin ten times over -- they’ll settle for the privacy of Harry’s sprawling loft up by Regent’s Canal, so secluded that sometimes Zayn feels like they’re the only two people left in all of London.

\--

The night before the exhibition opens, when Zayn's anxious enough to be sick with it, Harry says he'll come sleep at Zayn’s so he doesn't have to wake up alone.

“It’s easier than planning to meet there tomorrow,” Harry reasons over the phone, sounding like he’s on the road already. “Besides, I’ll just bring my Range over and that way you don’t have to get on the tube during morning rush.”

It sends Zayn's mind reeling. He doesn’t know how he's managed enough luck to land someone who'll worry about him, but it fills him up with an overwhelming contentedness to have Harry think about things like that. Things that can make Zayn’s life easier.

When Harry arrives at his flat later that night, it's with three bags full of shopping from Sainsbury's, unpacking then in the kitchen like it's his own.

Zayn leaves him to it while he showers. He comes back to find him in one of Zayn’s loose t-shirts and a pair of boxers, heating up a couple of homemade pizzas in their shoddy stove while Niall talks to him about his latest project at uni. For all that Zayn tries to find something odd about the picture they make, Harry looks perfectly in place, nodding along to Niall's voice attentively as he checks the timer.

After dinner, Harry joins Zayn in the cramped space of the loo to brush his teeth, hip-checking him for dominance over the sink. It inevitably leads to a full-on wrestling match against the washroom counter, the two of them laughing hard enough around their toothbrushes that they wind up with toothpaste halfway down their shirts.

They’re too lazy to change after, chucking their tops in the laundry hamper and falling into bed in just their boxers, smelling suffocatingly of mint. 

Zayn’s too wound up to rest once the lights are off, his brain whirring into overdrive again, reminding him that he’s a single sleep away from opening night. His stomach twists up enough that he thinks he might not rest at all, but Harry wraps around him from behind and kisses the back of his neck, pressing a hand over his heart.

"You're going to be perfect," he promises into Zayn's skin, as though he can read between the lines of his erratic heartbeat.

Zayn falls asleep before he can protest the assurance.

\--

An alarm goes off while it’s still dark out, clock flashing 5:00am when Zayn squints one confused eye open.

He furrows his eyebrows when he sees how early it is, about to reach over for his phone to see if he’d really set his alarm to go off so soon, but Harry kisses his shoulder and stops him before he can fully commit to it, murmuring, “Go back to sleep,” into the base of his neck.

The bed dips and settles when Harry climbs over him and slips out of the room. Zayn’s almost alert enough to ask where he’s going, but not quite. His eyes are too heavy to keep open, so he gives into the tired pull of his brain as the door clicks shut in the distance, falling back asleep.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before his alarm goes off properly, but he’s certain it’s still too soon to be humane. He lets it ring out for a while before he finally reaches out for his mobile and swipes it quiet with a grunt. 

When his second alarm goes off, he’s halfway back to blessed sleep, but he forces himself up and out of bed with another huff, dead weight on his feet. He runs through a mental to-do list for the day under the stream of the shower, letting it wake him up in increments. He gets dressed in the dark of his room and sends a text to his mum, then drags himself through the flat in search of Harry.

The sitting room is eerily empty as he pads past it and into the kitchen, finding Harry sat at the dining table with his back to Zayn, shoulders hunched and head bowed. He’s already in his black jeans and matching t-shirt, hair up in a bun, the sound of him tapping at his phone faintly audible. It’s a familiar enough sight, but it’s what’s in front of him that roots Zayn firmly in his spot, his heartbeat skidding to a stop before starting up again at twice the speed.

There’s a whole untouched spread for breakfast, two plates filled with piled up food, a mug of steaming coffee and a tall glass of juice next to each one. Zayn can smell it all, bacon and eggs and beans and toast, and he can hardly breathe with the realization that Harry had woken up just to do this. To cook breakfast for him.

Zayn swallows against the sudden onslaught of emotion that overwhelms him, trying to recover. He forces himself to push past the doorway and walk deeper into the kitchen until he’s right behind Harry, tilting his head back with gentle fingers. 

“You absolute idiot,” he murmurs when their eyes meet, a breathless affection colouring his tone and betraying his words. “You did this for me?”

“Thought you’d never wake up," Harry replies, huffing a quiet laugh. "The way you were conked out, I was about to eulogize you and call it a day.”

Zayn shakes his head and continues to stare down at Harry, unable to focus on his ribbing through the rush of warmth to his ears, more awed by him than usual.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” he points out, as though it wasn't obvious. “You could’ve slept another hour. We would’ve just grabbed something on the way.”

Harry shrugs, eyes going thoughtful and the slightest bit abashed where they’re fixed on Zayn’s. 

“Just like taking care of you, don’t I?”

Zayn feels something broken twitch inside of him like it’s melding itself, but it hurts just as much as it heals. He can’t do anything but look at Harry for a long time, trying to make sense of him, of how he’s managed convince himself Zayn’s something worth taking care of. 

A nervousness flashes across Harry’s eyes like maybe he’s second-guessing himself, but Zayn shakes his head to nip his doubts in the bud before they can fully form. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to the dip of his mouth, then the bridge of his nose, then the curve of his brow, pouring his gratitude into every touch of his lips.

\--

Against all odds, and despite a sinking feeling in his gut telling Zayn something’s going to go wrong, the exhibition goes off without a hitch. He spends the entire night thinking he might be dreaming.

People mingle, they eat, they drink, they spend money. The exhibitors all look pleased with the turnout, and they thank Zayn one by one, having either met him before or corresponded with him over email. They treat him like the keeper of their secrets, and Zayn tries not to dissuade them of that thought.

On a superficial level, he’s relieved he let Harry choose their outfits. Everyone looks like they’re straight out of a magazine, and the two of them fit right in.

They changed out of their jeans and t-shirts in the loo a few minutes before kick-off, and now they’re both in tight black dress pants and polished boots. Harry's in one of his YSL blouses, sheer black and unbuttoned to his navel, while Zayn's in one of Harry’s plain white ones, ironed crisp where he’s tucked it into his trousers and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. Zayn's always thought of Harry as the rock star between them, but tonight he feels like he could fit the bill, too.

When the last of the guests file out for the night, it’s like Zayn’s strings are cut off, relief flooding his veins. Des gathers the staff around and asks the caterers to pass around flutes of champagne, but Zayn feels tipsy already, buzzed off of Des calling him the man of the evening.

He thinks it should be weird, that Harry is wrapped around him from behind, arms around his shoulders and lips pressing quiet admissions of pride to his ear as Des says something about _all the hard work you’ve all put in into making this night a success_. No one else seems to spare them a thought, and with every moment that passes, Zayn just wants Harry nearer and nearer, wishing he could crawl underneath his skin.

A buzz in Zayn's pocket disrupts the thought. His phone is hanging onto its final breath when he pulls it out to check the display, and he can feel himself plummeting back down to earth, going stiff in Harry’s arms. Liam’s sent him a message, a simple, _Can we talk, please?_

Zayn tries to keep his breathing steady, but Harry must sense a change in him, pressing another kiss behind Zayn's ear and murmuring, “Everything okay?”

Zayn forces himself to nod and allows Harry’s familiar grip to ground him, deleting the text mindlessly before tucking the phone back in his pocket. He urges his limbs to relax, resolving to disallow anything from ruining his night. 

“Yeah,” Zayn exhales belatedly, knocking his head back against Harry's shoulder and closing his eyes. "All good.”

Time passes in a blur after that, stretching and thinning until they're finally back in the quiet of Zayn's flat, only managing to stay in the sitting room long enough to tell Louis and Niall all the highlights of the exhibition. 

Once Zayn's eyelids grow too heavy to ignore, he pulls Harry off the sofa by the hand and they bid the boys goodnight, retreating to the dark of Zayn’s room so Harry can finally lay Zayn out the way he's been aching for, fucking him until the restlessness eases out of his bones.

Afterwards, in between the tight twist of the sheets, Zayn kisses Harry sweet and slow until Harry yawns right into his mouth, his breath bitter with champagne.

“Ugh,” Zayn groans, tapering off into a laugh and shoving Harry’s chin away with all his might. “You’re absolutely disgusting.”

Harry joins him in unapologetic laughter as he takes Zayn’s fingers off his jaw, leaning in for another smack of a kiss even as Zayn cringes. When Harry breaks away, it's to turn around so his back is to Zayn’s chest, tugging Zayn by the hand behind him, urging him to wrap himself around his solid frame.

“Little spoon,” Harry says decisively, his voice riddled with exhaustion and deeper than usual. 

Zayn noses the back of his neck and nods, murmuring, “Little spoon,” into the top of his spine.

\--

Zayn dreams of an earthquake.

He dreams of strangers screaming his name, the ground trembling and cracking beneath the soles of his shoes, his arms outstretched by his sides like that could keep him steady. 

He dreams of his bones rattling inside his skin and wakes up shaking, shaking, shaking against his sheets.

“Baby,” Harry whispers, curling a hand against the side of Zayn's neck, voice softening when Zayn blinks. “Your phone’s been going off non-stop.”

Zayn narrows his eyes against the sight of Harry looming over him, looking puffy-eyed and sleep-deprived, silhouetted in the moonlight. He struggles to focus on him or on the sound of his phone vibrating somewhere off to his side, still lost in his own head. He covers his face in his hands, trying to scrub the last of his nightmare away.

“Might be important,” Harry murmurs as he re-settles himself against Zayn's side, his voice gone thin where it ghosts against Zayn’s skin. 

Zayn nods, allowing himself a moment to just lie there and hide behind the mask of his fingers, hoping the vibrations stop on their own. They don’t, so he sighs and forces himself up to his elbows, wincing as his joints crack with the movement. He reaches out to fumble for his mobile and squints down at the too-bright screen. The number isn’t saved.

“What time s’it?” Zayn asks, looking over to the clock on his desk just as Harry mumbles a muffled, “4:30, I think?"

“Number isn’t saved,” Zayn murmurs to himself, shaking his head. He dreads answering numbers he doesn’t know, his thumb hovering over the decline button when Harry's voice filters through again.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pushing up to his elbow and rubbing his eye. “Here. Let me see. Might just be a wrong number."

Zayn watches as Harry peels the mobile from his hand, tapping the screen before pressing it to his ear.

"Hello?” he rumbles, glancing over at Zayn with tired eyes, looking half-asleep. “Hello? No, this is, um. This is Harry. Who’s this, sorry?”

Zayn's insides bristle as Harry’s face dissolves into a confused frown. 

“Alright, just one second,” Harry says into the phone, lowering it from his ear to his chest and meeting Zayn’s eyes uncertainly. “It’s someone who says they’re your fiancé.”

“Shit,” Zayn murmurs, rubbing a hand over his chest as his heart kicks up an uneasy beat. “Here, let me talk to them.”

Zayn takes the phone from Harry’s hand, avoiding his gaze as he looks ahead and presses it to his ear. There’s a quiet breath on the other end, barely perceptible, but it has Zayn’s stomach swooping all the same, too familiar for comfort. He sits up further on the bed, the covers twisting around his middle.

“Liam?”

There's nothing on the other end, a stretch of silence followed by another breath, and then Liam’s voice comes through, clear as day. “Please don't hang up.”

Zayn lets his eyes fall shut and swallows against the swell of his throat, feeling like the wind has been knocked out of him. It takes him a while to find his voice again.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Liam hiccups, and there’s rustling on his end before he says, “Sorry. M'sorry.”

“Are you drunk, Li?”

“No," Liam says. "Maybe. Just a bit.”

Zayn takes a shaky breath. “Where are you? Are you alone?”

“I'm okay," Liam says, even though it's not what Zayn asked. "M’at a hotel. You haven’t replied to any of my texts, so I thought I might ring you.”

Zayn squeezes the back of his neck, struggling to keep up with the conversation, still reeling from the sound of Liam’s voice. 

“Why aren’t you at home, Li?”

“I’m in London. There's a conference and I thought maybe I'd see you, but that's such a stupid idea, isn’t it?”

Zayn nods even though Liam can’t see him, feeling nauseated all of a sudden, trapped between Liam’s voice and Harry’s palpable gaze on him. He pushes down against his nerves and gives Harry a small, apologetic smile over his shoulder, mouthing _one minute_ at him before slipping out of bed. He pads out of the bedroom and locks himself in the washroom instead.

“You still there, Liam?” he asks down the line, settling down on the closed toilet seat. He stares down at the the tiles beneath his feet and remembers his dream; imagines the floor cracking open enough to swallow him whole.

“Yeah,” Liam replies. “You’re not, though, obviously, 'cause we're broken up."

“Liam. It's been months,” Zayn murmurs, a renewed exhaustion pulling the fight from him, leaving him hollow. “Listen. I'm really, really sorry I didn’t reply to your texts, okay? But I want you to drink some water and go to sleep. It’s 4 in the morning. You’re going to hate yourself if you don’t get some rest.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you," Liam murmurs, a drunken sadness to his voice. “I'm so stupid.”

“It’s alright, Liam,” Zayn replies, even though his whole body hurts and it's the farthest thing from alright. “It’s alright. I’m fine. Just go to bed, okay? Do what I said. Water first.”

“Water first,” Liam repeats, but he doesn’t sound like he’s listening at all.

“Good,” Zayn agrees, softening his tone. “That’s good.”

“I really fucking miss you, y'know,” Liam says, and Zayn shuts his eyes as soon as the words are out, feeling his skin pull too tight around his flesh. “M’sorry, Z. M’sorry I moved back to Bradford. M'sorry that I chose a job over you and that I ruined us.”

Zayn can't respond for a while, memories flooding back to him in a rush, weighing him down.

“You’re really drunk,” is all he can finally manage, listening to the breathy silence that follows before the line goes abruptly dead, making Zayn’s eyes flutter shut.

He sits there motionlessly for a few moments before he lowers his phone from his ear and stares down at the screen as it locks, his sisters staring back at him in the background. He watches them until the screen dims to black, trying to find the courage to push up from the toilet, but the display lights up again before he can.

_Sorryy. Watee and then bed. Shouldjt have called you. Sorry._

Zayn stares down at the message until it goes dark again, then forces himself up to his feet to wash his face at the sink and scrub himself dry, dragging his feet back to the bedroom when he’s done.

He stops frozen in his tracks in the doorway, staring at Harry where he's sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. He’s in his t-shirt and jeans, tying his hair up from the wavy mess that it's in.

“Haz,” Zayn mumbles, trying not to let the worry reach his voice. “What’re you doing?”

Harry looks up at the sound of his voice, securing his hair in a bun before dropping his hands to his lap, shrugging.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, but there’s something wrong about his voice. He sounds too formal, like he’s asking a stranger.

“Yeah, that was just..." Zayn waves his hand around vaguely, too spineless to utter anything close to the truth. "Just a friend who needed help."

“Right,” Harry says, nodding slowly. “Just a friend who says you’re engaged.”

Zayn swallows against an apology, turning around to shut the door behind him with a gentle click so their conversation doesn’t reach the rest of the flat. He leans back against the it, crossing his arms behind his back as he looks at Harry sadly.

“Ex-fiancé,” Zayn corrects quietly, unable to keep the words tucked beneath his tongue any longer. “He was my ex-fiancé.”

Hurt flashes across Harry's features, but he casts his gaze away and nods like he’s trying to retain his composure. When he looks back at Zayn, there’s a hint of uncertainty bleeding into his demeanour.

“Did you just never think it was important to tell me you were engaged?”

“Haz,” Zayn whispers pleadingly, fixing his gaze on him. “Of course I thought it was important. I think everything with you's important. It's just been so bloody complicated.”

Harry takes a shivering breath but doesn’t reply, pushing up from the bed and turning his back to Zayn. He grabs his empty shoulder bag from the floor and hauls it onto the bed, gathering the blouses they wore the night before and stashing them away.

“Harry,” Zayn tries, a plea brimming in his voice. “Please talk to me.”

Harry doesn’t turn around, though, the lines of his back tense as he grabs more of his things from where they’re scattered around Zayn’s room, pressing them into his bag.

“What do you want to know?” Zayn whispers, the words circling his lungs like rope, crushing the next admission out of him despite every inch of him fighting against it. “We were engaged, but not anymore. We were together nine years, but not when I met you.”

Harry goes quiet and still, halting his movements entirely to the point that Zayn can hear him breathe, thin and unsteady, but then his shoulders shift again and there’s the sound of the bag being zipped up from one end to the other. 

It takes him a moment, but he finally turns around and sits back down on the edge of the bed where he was minutes ago, looking down at his hands in his lap like he’s trying to find answers in the lines of his palms.

“Did you,” Harry starts to ask, voice thick with emotion before he clears his throat and looks up, meeting Zayn’s gaze with a wet sheen to his eyes. “Did you sleep with anyone else, then? Between him and me?”

Zayn shakes his head slowly, a confusion mixing in with the hurt and desperation he's feeling as he tries to figure out where Harry’s head is, barely capable of keeping track of his own.

“No,” Zayn says, barely a whisper. “Just you.”

Harry huffs a watery laugh, looking down at his hands again before nodding and looking up to meet Zayn’s eyes, a small smile twitching at his lips. “So, all of this was like… an extended rebound shag.”

“Harry,” Zayn pleads, itching to push off the door.

“Just tell me,” Harry requests, shrugging a shoulder in defeat. “When you slept with me. Was it meant to be a one time thing?”

“Haz, please.”

“Was it meant to be a one night thing?”

Zayn feels overwhelmed as he tries to find a truthful answer, struggling against the inexplicable tears that spring to his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” he forces out. “On some level, maybe--”

“Fuck,” Harry murmurs, huffing out another wavering laugh, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand as he takes a deep breath. “Okay. I think I should probably go.”

"Harry, if we could just talk--"

Harry pushes up from the bed and grabs his bag, hauling it over his shoulder and readying himself to leave.

Zayn gathers every atom of courage scattered inside of him and pushes off from the door, moving a few steps towards Harry, but Harry sways an automatic step back, his whole body recoiling.

“Please don't,” he says, shaking his head like he can't help it. “I don't want you to stop me."

Zayn feels it like a direct blow to his heart, a devastation that starts at his core and trickles through his veins like poison, and he can’t trust his voice with another apology. 

He just nods and sidesteps out of the way, watching Harry slip out of his bedroom door before he can think of another way to ask him to stay.

\--

There’s a click as the balcony door slides open. 

Zayn looks over from his seat on a rickety white chair to find Louis poking his head out, hair soft and unkempt where it's fallen into his eyes. He looks just as tired as Zayn would expect him to in the middle of the night, but the sight of him still brings a small smile to his lips.

"Can't sleep?" Louis asks. It’s been five days of the same question and five days of the same answer, but Louis still asks.

"Nah, mate," Zayn says. “Can’t sleep. Time is it, anyway?"

"Three," Louis replies, tapering off into a yawn. "Ish."

"Don’t you have work in the morning?"

"Needed a wee," Louis says, stepping out onto the balcony fully, bare toes curling up on the cool tile. He hugs himself against the chill, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. "Have you heard anything from him?"

Zayn shivers bodily, attributing it to the gust of wind that passes over them and not the mere thought of Harry. He glances down to his lap, playing with the draw strings on his joggers as he thinks of the last time he’d messaged him. He hadn’t had the guts to do it the morning after Harry left, but he finally did two days after that. He smoked a bowl and sent him message after message, trying to apologize. He even tried to ring him a few times, but he kept getting his voicemail. He lost track of when he gave up, leaving a recording instead. He talked in hushed tones about how he was sorry he never told Harry sooner. He told him he was never just a rebound shag. He told him that he was the only thing that had kept Zayn alive -- really, truly alive -- in as long as Zayn could remember.

Harry had only ever replied once, late at night when Zayn had least expected it. 

_Why didn’t you tell me?_

Zayn had let it knock around his head until the morning after, needing to be as honest as he could after months of withholding the truth. 

_Because I liked you_ , he finally sent. _Because I thought you’d like me less if I were broken._

Harry hadn’t messaged back after that, and Zayn hadn’t tried to force anything else out of him.

"I'm sorry, bro," Louis mumbles, reminding Zayn that he hasn’t yet replied to his question. 

There's a rustle of sound as Louis walks up behind him and squeezes him by the shoulders, dropping a kiss to his head. "Will you promise to wake me if you need me?"

“I promise," Zayn replies with a quiet smile, thankful for the sentiment.

\--

The next time Louis catches Zayn awake in the middle of the night, he’s less than forgiving about it.

Zayn's fully dressed, wearing his joggers and a thick, oversized jumper that Harry had forgotten in a pile of clothes underneath Zayn’s bed, the fabric just barely holding onto his scent. 

He’s crouched near the front door, filling his rucksack with as many spray cans as he can manage without them bursting. He thinks he’ll only need two or three in the end, depending on how many pieces he can throw up without getting caught.

" _Zayn_ ," Louis groans, drawn-out and exasperated, padding barefoot across the floor toward him. He sounds the way he always does when he's tired of someone acting stupid on his watch. "Do you really think this is a good idea?"

Zayn counts the cans and zips up his bag, hauling it over his shoulder as he stands, grabbing his keys from the entry table. 

"Go back to sleep, yeah? I'll be quiet when I get in."

"Zayn,” Louis repeats, firmer. Zayn casts his gaze away, but he can tell Louis's doing his best to stare him down. "It's nearly three in the fucking morning, bro. You haven’t slept properly in days. Don’t do this right now, alright?”

“I appreciate the concern,” Zayn snipes, looking back at him. “Are you done pretending you’re my mum now?”

Louis clenches his jaw, eyes sharp. "Where are you going?"

"Louis."

"Where are you going, Zayn? If something’s gonna happen to you, I want to know where to look first."

Zayn purses his lips in anger. "I'll text you."

"Zayn," Louis warns. “I'm not in the mood for your fucking games.”

Zayn pulls open the front door, leaning his weight against it. "I’ll text you.”

Louis stares at him for a moment longer then shakes his head, casting his gaze away. 

"Fine, then. Fucking text me.”

Zayn feels a perverse sense of victory and nods without another word, slipping out of the flat and clicking the door shut behind him as he goes.

\--

The combination of the paint fumes and Zayn's exhaustion make him lightheaded enough that he thinks he might pass out.

He’s loathe to admit Louis was probably right. Zayn shouldn’t have come out here on such a shoddy sleep schedule with little to no idea of what he was going to paint. He reaches behind his head to tighten his bandana over his nose and mouth, feeling his breath dampen the rough triangle of material that stands between him and the chemicals.

True to his word, Zayn texted Louis when he got here, even sending him a photo of the neighbourhood to show him it’s empty. He's been out here for about half an hour now. He figures he won’t stay much longer. The area’s abandoned for the most part, a ghost of the children’s park it used to be, but it’s still not the safest place to graffiti in.

The piece he’s working on is borderline rudimentary, not nearly as elaborate as some of the murals he’d had a hand in when he was younger, but pressing his finger down against the nozzle is therapeutic nonetheless, eating away at his restless energy. He goes over the paint again and again until he’s got three brightly-pigmented words staring back at him in massive letters, _TURN THE PAGE_ splattered in hues of green, orange and purple, bleeding colour down the splits of brick. 

Zayn takes a few steps backwards to get a better picture of the finished piece, feeling short of breath from the effort he's exerted, and just as he's about to step in to add his final corrections, there's a rumble of sound from behind him that nearly shocks him out of his skin: "I like it.”

Zayn ducks away from the compliment like it's a bullet, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath. Once he’s sure he’s not been shot, he straightens up and turns around, staring wide-eyed at the source.

"Fucking hell, Harry," he exhales, yanking his bandana down from his mouth, heart still pounding in his chest from the scare. “What’re you _doing_ here?”

Harry bites his lip, furrowing his eyebrows apologetically as he takes a few steps towards Zayn and shrugs, hands buried into the pockets of a black trenchcoat.

“Louis rang me," he says, like it should be obvious. "Said you might get yourself killed tonight.”

Zayn feels a flare of embarrassment at the words, swallowing hard as he casts his gaze away. 

"Shit. I’m sorry. He shouldn’t have called you.”

“Hey,” Harry mumbles distractedly as he frowns, taking another few steps forward until their feet are slotting together, the contact bringing Zayn’s eyes back to Harry's. 

Harry just stares at him for a long time before he pulls a hand out of his coat pocket and reaches up, knuckling at Zayn's chin. He touches fingertips to Zayn's jawline, tilting his head into the light, staring at him intently from far too close. He sweeps his thumb over one of Zayn's dark circles, making his eyes flutter shut and his heart stutter in his chest.

“Has it really been a while since you slept?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Zayn replies as his embarrassment intensifies, canting his head away from Harry's touch. “I’m fine.”

Harry lowers his hand from Zayn's face, fingers skimming down his chest and his torso until Zayn can feel them twitching by his hip. Zayn hates how weak it makes him feel, but he casts his gaze down the length of his body to watch as Harry takes a two of his fingers in his own, linking them loosely.

“C’mon,” Harry says, and for the first time, Zayn can hear the exhaustion in his tone. “I brought you something to help you sleep.”

Zayn keeps his eyes on Harry’s fingers interlocked with his, feeling too much like a lifeline, then squeezes them wordlessly in agreement.

\--

The flat is dark and quiet when they get inside, no evidence of Louis or Niall being awake. 

They toe off their shoes by the door, Harry throwing his trench coat on the sofa before grabbing for his rucksack that he’d brought up from the car, taking a few steps back toward the kitchen.

"Get changed," he tells Zayn, nodding behind him. “I’m gonna get you something herbal.”

Zayn huffs out a tired laugh. "Think I've tried that already."

Harry rolls his eyes, breaking into a smile that makes Zayn's insides flutter. "Not that, idiot. I'll just be a minute."

Zayn watches as Harry disappears into the kitchen, leaving him to amble into his bedroom. He strips down to his boxers, crawling up the length of his bed and settling against the headboard as he waits for Harry, a new wave of fatigue seizing his bones as he rests his head back against the wall.

He looks over to the door when he hears something rattle, finding Harry walking into his room with a mug and saucer, spoon tucked by its side. Harry presses the door shut with his knee before he walks over to the bed.

“Nan’s recipe,” he says, setting the mug down on Zayn's desk. He straightens up and pulls his hair out of its bun, roughing up the strands between his fingers. “It'll knock you right out.”

"Thanks," Zayn murmurs, feeling a familiar warmth bloom inside him without even taking a sip.

Harry turns away from him, toeing off his socks. Zayn can hear him undoing the flies on his jeans, watching as he pushes the denim down his legs before peeling it off completely. He tugs his jumper off next, dropping it to the floor, leaving him in just his boxers as he climbs up the bed. He doesn’t sit next to Zayn, settling against the wall perpendicular to him instead, bringing his legs up to his body as he meets Zayn’s gaze.

"I’m sorry,” Zayn slips out in a murmur, face crumbling sadly. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Harry nods, looking down at his lap. "I know.”

Zayn takes a deep breath and stares ahead, exhaling slowly as he sifts through his thoughts. 

“When I met you, at the arts centre," he says, measured. "I thought you were really fit. I was like, this bloke looks like Mick Jagger. And I thought, _god_. Why is he even talking to me?”

“Zayn,” Harry murmurs, rolling his eyes.

“It’s true, though,” Zayn shrugs, tilting his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “And then I realized you might be interested in me, and I just thought -- well, maybe it’d be a bit of fun, you know. A distraction. I didn’t ever think I would feel like this about you.”

Harry’s quiet for a long time, and when he speaks, it’s only to whisper, "Like what?"

Zayn huffs an uneven laugh, barely a sound at all as his throat swells shut with emotion. He blinks at the ceiling, battling against his lingering hesitations and, in a moment of fight or flight, lifts his head up to look at Harry. His every bone aches for him, so he eases off of the headboard and shifts onto his knees, walking slowly across the mattress toward him.

When he’s close enough, he lifts a leg and crosses it over Harry’s lap, lowering his weight down on him carefully. He takes Harry’s face in both his hands, and when Harry doesn't push him away, he angles him closer and closer and closer until their lips finally meet. Zayn’s face twists up like he's tasted something sour, his chest clenching so tight it hurts. He doesn't move, though, pouring every inch of himself into the kiss, every shattered and melded piece of his heart fused between their mouths.

He kisses Harry until he's woozy for a breath, but he doesn’t go very far when they part, putting just enough space between them to whisper, "Like that,” into the cracks of Harry’s lips. 

Harry makes a wounded sound like Zayn’s physically struck him, but he wraps his arms around his middle and squeezes him close, nudging his nose against Zayn's and nodding into his mouth like he agrees.

\--

Zayn doesn’t realize he’s slept through the night until he wakes up the next afternoon, feeling more rested. There’s a spill of orange light tumbling in through his window, his clock flashing 2:23pm at him in bright red.

He’s disorientingly alone. The mug of herbal tea that Harry had made him is gone from his desk, along with the warmth of Harry’s body that had been curled up snugly behind him when they’d fallen asleep.

After their kiss, they had talked for what felt like hours, Zayn answering every one of Harry’s questions as honestly as he could manage. 

He’d told Harry how bad it had been between him and Liam towards the end. He'd told him how sometimes there had been fireworks, and sometimes there had just been ash and rubble. How Zayn had lost sight of himself almost entirely, and how he couldn’t even get a tattoo without feeling guilty for not consulting him first. He'd told Harry how, for no reason at all, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep in the same bed as Liam sometimes, too exhausted for more than a chaste kiss at the end of the night, falling asleep on the sofa just to be alone. He’d told Harry it hadn't been anyone’s fault; that he and Liam had fallen out of love at 25 just like they’d fallen into it at 16.

He wonders if maybe it had been too much for Harry to hear all at once. He's certain it would have been too much for him, had the roles been reversed. But before he can dwell on the thought, a set of familiar voices filters through from deeper in the flat, catching his attention. 

Zayn rolls onto his side and squints at his door as if that will help bring the muffled sounds into focus, and maybe it works, because in the next moment, he can hear Niall’s loud cackle and Louis' whinging and then there's Harry, his voice twisting around words that Zayn can’t quite make out.

Zayn allows himself to bask in the fact that he's still there. He feels ridiculously like he did the first day they met, walking into the packed Costas and feeling a flood of relief to find Harry holding a seat for him by the windows.

He can still smell the faint stench of spray paint stuck to the insides of his nostrils, and when he closes his eyes against his room, he sees _TURN THE PAGE_ splashed against the dark of his eyelids.

A sound of footsteps filters through the fog of his brain, followed by the click of the door pressing open and then shut again. Zayn blinks his eyes open, catching sight of Harry walking over to him, dressed in his jeans and shirt again.

“You’re awake,” Harry smiles, too much like the first time Zayn woke up to find him in his room. He climbs up the bed gingerly and sits down next to where Zayn’s still reclined, dropping a hand into his hair and scrunching it up in his fingers. “We were just making a late breakfast, if you’re hungry.”

“Mm,” Zayn hums, turning onto his back to look up at him. “I could eat.”

“‘Course you could,” Harry laughs softly, leaning down to peck him once on the lips. "Hi."

"Hi," Zayn smiles.

When Harry sits back up, he reaches for something on Zayn’s desk, coming back with his phone. “C’mere for a sec, yeah? I want to show you something.”

Zayn struggles to sit up with how heavy his limbs feel, but he manages it eventually, sitting next to Harry and pressing his chin to his shoulder as Harry brings up a webpage on his phone. 

When it loads, it's a photo of a small, speckled grey bowl, streaks of gold weaving through it like branches. Zayn thinks it’s pretty as far as bowls go, but Harry doesn’t say anything else, and its significance is lost on Zayn’s tired brain.

“S’nice,” he says. “Did you make it yourself?”

“As if,” Harry laughs, and Zayn cracks a smile against his shoulder, conceding his point. 

“No, it’s, like," Harry says, and there's something nervous in the way his voice dips. "It’s called Kintsugi. It’s a pretty famous Japanese form of repair where, like. When something’s broken, instead of doing away with it entirely, they meld it back together with gold, so that it’s worth more for what it’s been through than it had been when it was still whole.”

Zayn’s heart stutters to a stop, his eyes trained more firmly on the image of the bowl now, tracing the tendrils of gold snaking through what had apparently been cracks, holding the piece together. It dawns on him that Harry’s not talking about pottery anymore, and it brings a new warmth to his eyes even as he tries to keep his composure.

Once he can trust his voice with the joke, Zayn murmurs, “Are you saying you’re the gold?”

Harry huffs out a quiet laugh that tapers off into an unsteady breath, making Zayn realize he’s maybe not the only one who’s emotional.

Harry sets his phone back on the desk before turning his body more toward Zayn’s, their eyes meeting from far too close. There’s a pause where Harry just scans his face, his eyes, his nose, his lips. He skims his fingers up Zayn's chest and curls them in the juncture between his neck and shoulder, holding him steady. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together until Zayn’s eyes flutter shut.

“I’m saying,” Harry whispers finally, just a ghost of a sound against Zayn’s lips. “That I really want to be with you. And that if you wanted to, we could try and turn the page.”

Zayn feels like he can't catch his breath, but he lets the thought knock around his head as he nods along, brain whirring when Harry's words settle around him like dust. He doesn't know what it might mean, for Harry to be with him once and for all, without all the secrets and lies to hide behind, but he thinks that he might be falling in love again, and he doesn't want to stop.

It takes a moment for Zayn to find his voice again, but when he does, he returns the words into Harry's mouth like a promise, a hushed agreement that barely filters through the air at all. 

Harry must hear it, because he exhales something akin to relief into Zayn's lips, his mouth twitching into a familiar smile as he seals the deal with a kiss.


End file.
